


Morcilla

by Weconqueratdawn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood and Feelings, Domesticity, Hand porn, M/M, Sexy Cooking, difficult Will is difficult, gratuitous cuban beach house, maybe not strictly cannibalism but in spirit very much so, no angry murder puppies were (seriously) harmed in the writing of this fic, romantic cannibalism, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/pseuds/Weconqueratdawn
Summary: Does Hannibal want to have his cake and eat it too? Will isn’t sure.A meditation on a subject I’ve been thinking about for some time - how exactly do you go about loving someone who also might want to eat you?Will remembered Hannibal’s flushed skin under his palms, the heat of his body. “This afternoon, I thought about blood. I thought about flesh, your flesh. You felt so real. So human.”Hannibal didn’t bother to keep his piqued curiosity hidden. He had no need to pretend anymore. “The body is a gift to one’s lover,” he said, after a beat of consideration. “A sacrifice to their pleasure, that yet receives pleasure in return.”





	Morcilla

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom, eh? The things it makes us do.
> 
> Set in the future of the [Inosculation](https://archiveofourown.org/series/509250) verse - no need to have read that series, however, this works as a standalone.
> 
> A massive thank you to [Pangaea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangaea) for illustrating this fic in the most suggestive way possible XD

There was a secret no one else knew - that no one else could know, not like Will did. The creature they imagined - the devil of dust and smoke, the monster who devoured - he was just a man. Beneath Will’s body, under his hands, all that moved was simply skin and scars, flesh and muscle - an ordinary human frailty.

It writhed with want, all for Will. And Will gave it all he had, until Hannibal cried out and seized him. The tight grip of his thighs pinned Will in place, keeping him deep and still while he rode out his climax. Will obeyed, relenting the greedy push of his hips, until it passed. As soon as it did, he slammed back into him again, bent almost double with urgency. 

Hannibal lay back and watched every thought flicker through Will’s eyes as he fucked him. Will watched him right back. When he came - _spilled, lost, emptied_ himself into Hannibal - it felt like the opposite. Like taking and having. Like devouring.

After, he opened his eyes and pulled out, sweaty and sore-muscled. Hannibal was watching him still. Will smiled with fierce joy, and kissed him.

*

They dressed and went back downstairs. The heat was neither worse nor better, even after a cold shower. Bramble was curled up in the shade of the kitchen, a wise place to be with its ceiling fan and cool tile floor. Fat heavy clouds had sat for days along the coast, bringing an uncomfortable stillness and only a few drops of rain. The sun had returned slowly, burning its way through the haze, but with no fresh wind to leaven the humidity.

Hannibal, of course, went straight to the fridge. Lunch had not long past and it was too early for dinner, but the heat and their exertion called for some kind of sustenance. That, and his ever-present need for ritual. There were still few things more sacred than eating.

The light from the open fridge door cast him with an unnatural halo. Its shelves were well-stocked, devoted equally to his enjoyment and skill. Hand-labelled jars and a neat stack of string-tied parcels. Though Will knew the meat was all perfectly ordinary, and had been since they arrived, it was an easy jump back to that first kitchen. Easy to marvel, from a distance, at its secrets.

Will saw him deliberate, saw the possibilities arise and be cast aside, quick as a spinning rolodex. The moment of decision was marked by a tiny tilt of the head, a confident set of the shoulders. This was where Will failed to excel in the kitchen. He was competent with almost any other task, but choosing a recipe to suit the moment was beyond him.

“Tostadas,” Hannibal said, lining up ingredients on the counter. Half a loaf, leftover from yesterday. Garlic. A bowl of tomatoes, sun-warmed from the window sill. And from the fridge he took a wax paper packet of sliced jamón and unwrapped it.

“Breakfast?” Will said. “Again? I’ll make coffee.”

Hannibal, looking self-satisfied, did not pause in slicing the bread. “If you must insist on returning to bed in the middle of the afternoon.”

“As if you weren’t equally responsible,” Will snorted. He stole a tomato from the bowl and took it outside with him, while the coffee bubbled on the stove.

They dined there, on the veranda, even though there were more insects and less breeze. The tomatoes were overripe and squashed extravagantly into the toasted bread. Little curls of ham accompanied, decorating the edge of each plate. Will ate them with his fingers, and fed one to Bramble when she crept sluggishly out to find them.

Hannibal watched him with a fond calculating warmth. Will recognised it as love, now. It was so good it hurt. Vicious and so, so tender.

Will looked at his plate. “How long can we do this?” he asked. “How long can I have this for?”

From the opposite side of the table, he felt an increase and then a release of tension. A swirl of something dark and brittle, and a decisive letting-go. “I want nothing to change,” Hannibal said. “You, however, seem certain that something must.”

Will slumped back in his chair. “Something will,” he said. “We have coalesced, gravity has shifted. It will continue to shift, until a new balance is found.”

“You’re afraid the balance won’t be in your favour.”

“I’m tired of thinking about it,” said Will. “Weighing up who is gaining and who is losing. If we’re to dance, then let’s.”

“Dancing requires a partner, not an opponent,” said Hannibal. “Is that what you see?”

“I don’t know,” Will said. “Sometimes.” He remembered Hannibal’s flushed skin under his palms, the heat of his body. “This afternoon, I thought about blood. I thought about flesh, your flesh. You felt so real. So human.”

Hannibal didn’t bother to keep his piqued curiosity hidden. He had no need to pretend anymore. “The body is a gift to one’s lover,” he said, after a beat of consideration. “A sacrifice to their pleasure, that yet receives pleasure in return.”

Will poked stubbornly at the last of his food. “I enjoy your pleasure,” he said. “I did today. It seems appropriate that I should witness it, cause it. That it should be mine. That it should always be mine.”

When he glanced up, Hannibal looked enraptured. Though physically unlikely they could manage much so soon, Will wondered if he would let himself be taken back to bed. 

“And what about your pleasure?” Hannibal asked. “Can I make the same claim?”

“In a partnership you would,” Will said. “Give and take. What would you like to give, Hannibal, and what would you like to take?”

Hannibal stared at him with burning eyes. Will felt a spark of triumph. This was a dance indeed, though he wasn’t sure which kind. Even for him, the rules were never clear. He would always follow and never lead. Not for long, anyway. 

He ducked his head, and softened his posture. It wasn’t a subtle manoeuvre but it didn’t matter. Hannibal would recognise his forfeit for what it was - a gesture of peace. 

“Consider it a gift,” he said. “Next time.” Then he stood and began clearing away.

*

The weather didn’t break. Instead, one morning, they awoke to find a fresh wind blowing in off the sea. The trees swayed with it, and stirred Bramble from her lethargy. Will took her for a long run along the beach, throwing sticks of driftwood into the waves when he grew out of breath. She splashed after them with enthusiasm, mouth open and tongue lolling, like she was humouring him but knew it was just part of the fun.

They climbed back up the hillside, hungry and soaked through. Before Bramble could run inside, Will called her over to the hose and rinsed the salt from her bedraggled fur. She’d need a proper bath later. She shook herself, then went to stretch out on the wooden boards of the veranda, where Hannibal had left out a bone for her.

He was preparing lunch, the kitchen neat and tidy, full of pungent herbs and red raw meat. A row of newly sharpened knives lay on the counter, ready for polishing. 

Though Hannibal’s style of dress had relaxed to fit with his beach-side lifestyle - complete with beard and grown-out hair - the effect was still just as put-together as of old. Will felt an urge to change for lunch, into something more respectable and less spotted with seawater and dog. For that very reason, he didn’t.

He washed his hands and joined Hannibal in polishing the knives. They looked good in his hands, Will thought. They always had. Their shape matched the elegance of his gestures, and the silver gleam of steel was brilliant against his golden skin. His fingers were deft, precise. Will wanted to them on him again, digging in hard as he shuddered through orgasm.

“I’m almost done,” Hannibal said. “You could dice the steak, perhaps. It will be sautéed over a high heat, so not too thick.”

From the ingredients in front of him, Will guessed they were having a quick stew. One to be braised in the pan before being served with mounds of green herbs. Hannibal had not yet tired of Spanish-style cooking. Tomatoes, marbled red meat, and hot peppers were used at almost every meal - as if they were merely on an extended vacation, soaking up the local culture while they could.

The beef was rump, ruby-coloured with beautiful streaks of fat, soft under his knife. Will saw it slice across his finger before he felt anything, his skin parting easily, white and then bright blood red. Hannibal was at his side in seconds.

He guided Will to the faucet and rinsed the wound clean. Cold water numbed the pain to something distant, a temporary retreat. Hannibal had his head bent close, checking the depth of the cut. His fingers were cold too, from the water. 

“You may need a stitch,” Hannibal said, after a minute. “At the very least something to hold it closed. Sit down and I will fetch my bag.”

He pulled out a chair and Will sat on it, a paper towel wrapped tight around his finger. It throbbed, oozing a trickle of fresh blood with each pulse. To Will it looked like it would soon stop, but Hannibal was proved right when he moved his finger. The cut opened again, the folds of his skin gaping wide and deep, the flesh surrounding it bloodless. Will covered it back up with the towel before it could drip all over the floor.

Hannibal returned and knelt at his feet. He set out antiseptic, bandages, scissors, thread. Will scrutinised his professional detachment with interest, as if Will’s blood was just anybody’s. Maybe underneath the fragile skin everyone was the same to Hannibal. Meat, and nothing else.

He watched Hannibal pull on disposable gloves and lift the paper towel away. Will flexed his finger. New blood flowed from it and sullied the latex covering Hannibal’s hand.

“All the times you spilled my blood and never thought to taste it,” Will said. The words welled up from the same source as his blood. He couldn’t stop them anymore than he could will the bleeding to halt. His heart pounded a little faster, from fear, from adrenaline. “Don’t you want to?”

Hannibal met his eyes, cautious, surprised. Will didn’t flinch from his look.

“What is it you want to take from me?” Will said. “We both know you want to. You always will.”

He knew he was probing, too far and too deep. Hannibal’s lips pressed together in an unhappy line. He let go of Will’s hand and selected a needle.

Will looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment. “That was… unhelpful. It’s difficult to see you this way without thinking of other times.”

Hannibal stilled his motions, maybe a little too abruptly. There was a bottle of antiseptic, still unopened, in his hand. “The blood of mine enemy is different from the blood of Christ,” he said. “One is conquest, the other rapture.”

“Your victims weren’t good enough to be your enemies,” Will said. He swallowed. “I wasn’t your enemy either.”

“You were the closest thing I had to one. You threatened my freedom, my peace. I felt betrayed.” There was a heavy pause, then Hannibal roused himself like a stopped clock whirring back into life. “Instead of opening old wounds, let me close this one.”

He unscrewed the cap, and doused a cotton pad with its contents. The harsh smell of disinfectant coloured the air.

“Taste it,” Will said, before Hannibal could move. He held his hand out. Fresh blood glistened, close to Hannibal’s mouth. “I want you to. You should know this, about me.”

Hannibal looked at him, expression flat, veiled.

“Please,” said Will.

Hannibal blinked, once, and took hold of Will’s hand again. He bent his head as if he were going to kiss it. Will knew he was being scented, and the moment committed to memory. He felt Hannibal’s tongue trail over the cut, gentle at first then he closed his lips over it and sucked. It hurt. Will let it, and when he pulled away Will imagined his mouth smeared sticky and bright with blood. But Hannibal’s lips were spotless.

With his other hand, Will reached for his face. Hannibal leaned into his palm for a moment, then silently went back to his task of tending Will’s wound.

*

Hannibal said nothing more, so neither did Will. His finger felt swollen and sore, and the bandage cumbersome. The stitches itched already. Hannibal had put in three, each expertly done.

He chose to dress for dinner. His reflection was not too different to the one in his bathroom mirror at Wolf Trap. Better rested, probably. A little older, a few more scars. The beard he’d worn in the woods had gone, back to his old trimmed stubble. It hadn’t hidden his marred cheek very well, anyway. There were few signs of change, considering.

For dinner, Hannibal served fish. It was light and elegant, brushed with lemon and oil - a world away from the rich spices and meats which had become habitual. Will spent the meal sifting through all the things it could mean.

A drink on the veranda after they’d finished eating was usual. They sat close on a cushioned porch seat, looking out over the garden. It wasn’t big but it was private, enclosed by walls and tall trees. The sky was heavy with twilight.

Will had been thinking of rapture, and conquest. About mourning and consuming. And eating.

“We never talked about it,” he said. “Not openly.”

He glanced at Hannibal beside him. He hadn’t moved, still relaxed, a glass of wine in hand. Not even a finger twitched on the stem.

“If I tripped and fell down the stairs. Broke my neck.” He had to ask, had to know. Even if Hannibal wouldn’t tell him now, it would come out. Eventually. “What would you do with me?”

Hannibal gave a sharp intake of breath, through his nose. It was almost unnoticeable. Almost.

“You’re angry with me for asking,” Will said. “Once you would have delighted in it.”

“You are goading me to say things you don’t really want to hear,” Hannibal said. “Then you will tell me this between us is impossible. And leave.”

Will tipped his head back to the sky and thought about how true that might be. “I don’t want to leave,” he said. It was all he could be was sure of. “I don’t want to be without you. Not anymore.”

He felt Hannibal’s sigh where their shoulders touched. Hannibal took his uninjured hand and held it in his lap, clasped between his own. “I do not want to be without you, either.” His voice was very soft, just a little louder than the rustling leaves. “I want you here, just like this. With me. Forever.”

Will nodded. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. That was the only other thing he was sure about.

*

His finger healed quickly. Will supposed his body had had plenty of practice. Hannibal redressed the bandages, checked it twice a day, until there was just an itchy scab left. If he lingered a little over each inspection, Will didn’t mind.

But the image of his bloodied hand wouldn’t leave him, or of Hannibal’s ministrations. At first he thought it was simply familiarity stirring up old memories. Then, one day, he knew better.

“I have a proposal,” Will said, as they sat down again to eat. Ceviche, soon to be followed by roast rib of beef. “One which may let you have your cake and eat it, so to speak.”

Hannibal regarded him warily at first. Then a customary amusement spread itself across his face, laced with exasperation. “How you enjoy bringing surprises to my doorstep,” he said. “Like a gundog dropping a dead pigeon. Though often your surprises have more teeth than is considered desirable.”

Will laughed. Though not very flattering, it was probably accurate. “Leaving a trail of blood and feathers behind me.” He noted silently that Hannibal hadn’t denied he wished his cake to be eaten. “How did I taste?” he asked, forging stubbornly on. “I could make a donation, perhaps a regular one. We could dine on my offering.”

“A meal of devotion.” Hannibal paused, eyes focused elsewhere, savouring the possibility already. “It is a generous offer. I will think about it.”

There was a finality to his tone which made Will frown at his plate. He was confident his gesture had been appreciated; that he had not overstepped or offended. Making it was not without risk, either. A long time ago, Hannibal had caught his scent and pursued him for it. Now he had had his first taste, and Will offered more still. The line in the sand retreated as the years passed; there was a danger the more Will gave, the more Hannibal might take. It could devolve beyond both of their control. Maybe it already had.

Will had to allow that perhaps that was why Hannibal paused and waited, before answering.

The day after, Will came downstairs to find Hannibal sitting in an armchair. There was a book open across his lap, and a bag hung from a stand nearby, gathering blood from the crook of his arm. It was half full.

Will didn’t need to ask. But he also didn’t know what to say. Instead he stopped stock-still in the middle of the living room, and stared.

“This is what I am giving,” Hannibal said, turning a page of his book.

Will nodded slowly, while his thoughts caught up with the scene before him. “And what I am going to do with this gift?” he said, taking a step closer.

“You’re going to eat it, of course,” Hannibal said. “We both will. Once it’s been prepared.”

“Of course,” Will echoed. “You’re going to give what you wouldn’t take from me.”

“I would take,” Hannibal said. “Maybe I still will. But perhaps there will be no need for me to, after this. Maybe you’ll understand.”

Will had drifted over to the chair without being aware of it. It was on the tip of his tongue to say _there’s no need to do this_ and _I do understand, of course I do_.

Hannibal must have seen the conflict on his face. “Receiving a gift is as much of a gracious act as giving. It would cause me much pleasure to see you receive this one.”

Will let the weight of that settle into his chest. It sat surprisingly comfortably. He looked at the bag, still filling slowly, thick and syrupy with blood.

“A pint will be enough,” Hannibal said. 

Will leaned across and checked the bag, satisfyingly warm to the touch. He waited until it was full, then fetched Hannibal a piece of chocolate. When he returned Hannibal had removed the needle and secured the bag.

Hannibal smiled at the chocolate, but ate it without comment. Will sat on the arm of the chair until he had, stroking his hair and letting him lean against him. He was strongly reminded of when Hannibal had been sick and couldn’t take care of himself. Will had done it then, for him. For the both of them.

“I think I understand,” he said. Hannibal twisted round to look at him. “You want to prove you can do more than take.”

“You seem so certain I will not be satisfied until you have been utterly consumed,” Hannibal said. “There was a period where that was true. Not anymore. Now I wish to share. I wish to share everything.”

Will squeezed his hand. “I know,” he said.

*

Under Hannibal’s direction, they made morcilla.

Hannibal showed Will how to prevent the blood from coagulating by adding a pinch of salt and stirring gently with his fingers until a clotted mass formed. Will knew about fibrin, knew about the mesh it formed to seal wound sites. It was useful for estimating time spans between injury and death. But he’d never seen it happen before his own eyes. He squeezed as much blood as he could from the slippery mess and put it to one side. Hannibal beamed at him, and kissed his cheek.

“And now,” he said, “the real cooking begins.”

They worked in tandem. Hannibal finely chopped a gleaming slab of pork fat while Will prepared the casings, rinsing each one with water to separate them and check for tears. Onions caramelised in a pan and were minced with fried red peppers and garlic. A pot of cold rice waited, already prepared. Hannibal always had been fastidious in his planning.

The next step was simply to combine everything, along with seasoning and spices. Hannibal tipped the blood - _his own blood_ , Will reminded himself - into the pot. It was dark, almost black, glowing like rich wine. Will stirred it in. At first the rice was painted in the same gory colour, but by the end everything was a glutinous rust-red.

To fill the sausage casings Hannibal stood close, fitting himself against the curve of Will’s back, long arms reaching around him to the bowl. Both their hands were sticky, smeared with something which had recently been a part of Hannibal and now was food. Will wondered how many times Hannibal had witnessed that happen. Aside from the eating, it must be the most satisfying part - the turning point of the transformation.

“What does it feel like?” Will asked him. He tangled his fingers with Hannibal’s, briefly halting his work. “Watching a part of yourself be turned into something I will soon consume?”

Hannibal nuzzled along his jaw until Will turned his head. They kissed, soft and slow, hands held clear so not to soil their clothing. An iron tang hung in the air around them.

“Intimate,” Hannibal said. He pressed his forehead to Will’s. “I want to watch you eat.”

They both had a day’s wait before that could happen. The sausages were tied, simmered in boiling water, and left to set overnight in the fridge. Each time Will went for some milk or a beer, he ended up staring at them, thoughts helplessly drawn to the dinner Hannibal would cook for him.

That night his hunger for Hannibal, roused and left temporarily unfulfilled, spilled over. The tenderness of the day gave way to something desperate and punishing, with Hannibal pinned beneath him, jolted by his thrusts. When he came, Will groaned in his mouth and ground himself deep, not caring if he was rough and Hannibal over-sensitive. Hannibal would return the favour, anyway, sooner or later.

The dinner, when it finally arrived, was exquisite. Will dressed in his best suit - his only suit, in fact, one he had allowed Hannibal to have made for him. Everything on the table was chosen with special care, and much less elaborate than Hannibal usually preferred. The dark wood of their dining room table was left bare, and the plates and napkins were stark and white against it. Red carnations were the only flower, a mass of unruly and undulating blood-coloured frills. 

Will had expected a grand procession of dishes, a feast leading up to the final climactic act. Instead, Hannibal only served one.

It was excessively simple - a tomato and white bean stew, crowned with slices of the star ingredient. Grains of rice shone out from the crisped black sausage, masquerading as the pieces of pork fat which, having been soaked in blood, were as dark as the rest of it. Will took his time considering his plate, knowing Hannibal was watching. 

“That’s quite a gift,” Will said, after a minute or two. He raised his glass to Hannibal. “To a rapturous meal of devotion. One shared equally, between partners.”

Hannibal looked gratified, and added, “To our endless dance - long may it continue.”

Will laughed and picked up his fork. Hannibal smiled, and did the same. Together, they began to eat.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write about creepy!Will, but Hannibal out-creeped him in the end. I don’t know why I’m surprised.
> 
> PS you can just add red wine vinegar to your freshly-harvested blood but it’s not as gruesome or intimate as getting your boyfriend to do it with his hands. Also, I have no idea about blood clotting and forensics, but it sounded plausible enough for this fic so in it went *shrug*
> 
> PPS please can I have a round of applause for not making any Hannibal’s “blood sausage” jokes… unless, of course, you consider that this entire fic might be exactly that ;) *snickers 4eva*
> 
> Fic posted [on tumblr here](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/post/164410403012/morcilla-weconqueratdawn-hannibal-tv) should you care to signal boost
> 
> The [Inosculation](https://archiveofourown.org/series/509250) series sits in the same universe, in case you were looking for more fic to read ;)
> 
> If not, you can find me on tumblr: [weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/%20)


End file.
